I was just wondering if any of you are writers? I've been writing for a large portion of my life- mostly poetry and little essays. Sometimes I try to make general statements and observations as eloquent as I can, just to challenge myself. I also write lyrics (being as I play a few instruments). If you are a writer post some of your works here so we'll have something to read.

-Here is a song I wrote last Fall, I know it's not too good to read, but it sounds nice with music:

I wrote a song just yesterday;Moved by the time of year,The words they set the president;But nothing's what it seems,For I wrote a song just yesterday;About the falling leaves.

Spring is not as much as those;Mark it up to be,With a stiring in the budding trees-And flowers start to grow,Spring tends to be too happy;For my longing to repose.

When winter winds are blowing;And outside it's bitter cold,The weather bites your fingers,And it tends to freeze your toes-I'll think about the autumn;Before the coming of the snow.

Summers always sultry and-I just don't like the heat,I must admit the haze is nice;Upon the dusk-light street,But Summer's colors aren't as bright-As Autumn's tend to be.

What kind of stories? My mother was always very good at writing childrens stories, but she never tried to get any of them published- I've thought about trying to publish some of them for her, but I'm not sure how to go about doing that...

i write poetry sometimes, but none of it's good. Here's a poem i wrote a year ago that may be ok:

Falling, falling into light
from the darkness of the night.
What dreams may come or memories show
are for no one but him to know.
He lifts the chair before I tumble,
quietly watching as I fumble
my life away without meaning.
Now, silently I'm leaving.
Goodbye, adieu, oh sweet sorrow!
Maybe we'll meet again tomorrow
for without life and love's sweet breath,
I tumble into sweet, precious death.

I write, but I'm never happy so my story has been going for six years without me getting halfway, but there is a poem from it I'm willing to share (its not great, or really good for that matter);
Light is lost I bring you shame
I send you back from whence you came
Apart from here forever be
For a broken spirit you've given me
Soon begone and soon forgot
A blackened heart is all you've got

i've been writing since the day i popped out of the womb, lol. i've been working on a story for about a year and its going well for me.

very great poem rabbit! it gives very beautiful mental pictures and i'm trying to see if i can imagine some music with it...unfortunately i'm way off with what the music probably is, but i can always imagine. keep up the good work!

peachaddict: Thank you, I like your poem also. I DO record some of my music, my sound is VERY similar to Iron & Wine, as a matter of fact, I'd invented my own picking paturn, and when I discovered Iron & Wine- Sam Beam very quickly became my favorite artist- I couldn't figure out why I liked the way he played the guitar so much, but then one day I realised that he used the same picking paturn as I always do Unfortunately I only have a USB PC mic which really butchers music if you try to record with it, I can't hit any high notes without it getting static(y), which is a shame being as I've spent over $200 on voice training lessons, it would be nice to record some of it

OKI-DOKI, in this little (true) story of mine I was attempting to paint as vivid a picture as I could without getting incredebly into the details of the scene, tell me what you think:

As autumn came I walked my horse down to the Providence Hospital field- I let him free, while I laid on my back in a crunchy and sweet smelling bed of golden grass which had not yet been hayed that one last time before the snow came to blanket the earth until spring. I stared up at the sky in silent repose, letting my mind wander- just like my horse wandered freely, here sometimes, and then over there- munching away in rhythmic content somewhat less than the peaceful rapture deeply imbedded within that introverted moment which I will never forget- at that moment the world was gone, it was just me- lying there in the brisk autumn air- warmed by the lazy after sunshine on the hillside across from the river, next to the field.

I've written poetry off and on for years. Depends on when the muse strikes, you know? But I have published one and hope to publish others in the future.

garden symphonies

a blue symphony of clouds
soaring above my dreams
like those moments of delicious sunshine
and deep, forest shadows
in my white, diamond garden bed
surrounded by two thousand wild daffodils
lovely, blood-red roses
and luscious, purple violets
budding by a sea of languid waters
reflecting the beautiful, starry sky
through the trees flooded with moonlight
after a thunderous summer rain storm

hear the whispered language
of mother earth and her goddesses
worshiping the flowers
climbing my garden trellis
and blessing them with crystal drops
of morning dew and the last
of the swirling, nighttime, silver mists